Grief like Shadows
by connorfemway
Summary: Grief is something an Assassin should be accustomed to. Why, then, is it so hard to cope with? Fem!Connor


"How did you feel after you killed Haytham? What did you do to honor him?"

A reply to an ask on the ask blog **connorfemway** on tumblr.

Enjoy.

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Grief has become a shadow that wraps about the shoulders and neck and threatens to strangle the host at any moment chosen. Grief has become the ever-persistent nagging at the back of the mind, a shallow reminder of what could have been and what could never again be.

There are no words that Connor can translate to English, no words even in her native tongue that can describe what she feels. The only person there to listen is Achilles who occupies the shadows of the vast manor. His eyes gleam like pearls with only a shred of moonlight to make his features visible.

In the Assassin's trembling hand is a tricorn hat, stained with blood.

In travel, emotion had been denied so frequently that Connor hoped she might forget it altogether. That the emotion would simply fade away, be caught in the breeze and carried away somewhere far away so that she might never have to feel it again.

But she had been wrong.

Stepping through the door of the manor, it was as though someone had dropped the entire manor on her. Chest tight, unable to breathe, eyes threatening to pour salty liquid down her cheeks.

"I do not understand," her voice wavers in the darkness. She speaks. But to who, she does not know. Achilles, perhaps? There is detachment in this moment - as though even the old man is not there.

"Grief is not something we can understand at the drop of a hat," the old man's eyes come to rest on what she carries, the words spoken by accident, "What of your people?"

"Kanen'tó:kon is gone," the Assassin does not feel like an Assassin any longer. She feels as though years have melted away. The staircase comes into her line of sight next, and her feet make their way towards it.

Achilles' head has dropped low. A pair of old, wrinkled hands move restlessly on the knob of the cane they hold.

"I was not close to him," words continue to push past Connor's lips as she takes one step at a time towards the secret entrance behind the staircase. "I killed him. I should not feel this way."

"He was still your father," Achilles reminds, firmly, "It is as I've said before. With every kill you should feel regret and pain. Being as he was your father, I would be worried if you _didn't_ feel the way you do now."

In the dark, a blood crusted hand palms at the wall. The candle mount is found and yanked downwards. The door pops open, a blast of musty air finding her nose.

"Do you need anything, Connor?" Achilles calls, and she can hear him stand up from his chair. It sounds so far away, much farther than just down the hallway.

"A... bowl of water," she mutters to the open air. Not caring to see if Achilles had heard, Connor begins her descent into the deep darkness. Each stair screams beneath her step.

A candle is lit, illuminating the pictures upon the wall. Haytham's face glows, forever frozen in time.

The tricorn hat is set upon the table, and at the sound of a small 'thump' at the top of the stairs, Connor shudders. Despite this she returns there, retrieves the bowl of water that has been left there.

The contents of the bag are dumped upon the table. Different jars with various powders inside.

Two hands press to the surface of the table, allowing Connor to lean on it for support. Steady breaths are taken, eyes cast downward at the floor.

This is not effective in calming the nerves that arise. The Assassin pushes back from the table, stumbling half a step. Carefully she removes the overcoat she wears, then the shirt beneath that, leaving her only in her chest binding and necklace.

In a fury the Assassin dips her hands into the water, splashes herself in the face with it. It is ice cold and she grunts and shivers, continuing on despite herself. Fingers are scrubbed clean, face scrubbed clean, wounds carelessly scrubbed of dirt and crusted blood.

By the time she is finished, the water is stained pink. Within the water's reflection Connor can peer at her own face. It is stony, hardened by the years of continuous work, pain, grief. In the water she sees her father, peering back at her, eyes cold and chin set.

It takes several moments for the native woman to compose herself. It is now, once her breathing has calmed, that she reaches for the tricorn hat. Carefully she flakes away the dried blood, tries hard to wash away the stains from the dull blue color. The hat is cleaned once, twice, three times before it is finally set aside.

The Assassin braces herself against the table once again, watery eyes stuck on the picture of her father.

There was so much to be upset about, so much to be angry about, so much that she felt she could be happy about but was not. Everything was melding together.

A jar is picked up from the table, lid untwisted. It is set upon the table, and carefully Connor pours some of the white powder into the lid along with some water.

With the precision of an artisan, Connor creates paint from these powders - one color at a time. Black, red, and white. Made with powders and berries from the forest and the watered-down blood of her father.

The pair of hands are carefully cleaned before she begins what she needs to do. With utmost care, Connor replaces the hidden blade on her left arm. She dips the thumb of her right hand into the white paint, then leans up to the wall. She scrawls a word below her father's picture, but unlike the others she does not have the heart to cross his picture out at this time.

The blade is unsheathed, taken into her left hand. The Assassin uses her right to guide the blade, guide where and how to cut, using the water's reflection as a subtle aid. The blade is set into position, but Connor can't bring herself to drag it backwards. Her eyes find her father's stony face. There was so much strength there - the things he did, he did flawlessly. All things were set aside for the greater cause. She had achieved his respect, his authority, and garnered pride from him.

Lies had been told, people slaughtered, causes shifted, but the priorities had never changed. She was her father's daughter, just as she had wanted to be all that time ago.

It was a miserable experience. Now she could understand what it was he felt - why it was that he had changed so dramatically in those years between the journal she had coveted as a child and the time of his death.

A deep breath is taken before Connor drags her blade backwards. Despite the shreds of hair that fall into her eyes, she does not close them.

But what was the mistake she had made? She had made one. She had made so many.

It mattered little now. Mistakes could not be remedied now. Haytham Kenway was dead. Her people would desert their land. George Washington was responsible for the death of her mother.

And Charles Lee was still out there, and Kanen'tó:kon was dead because of him. She would go so far as to say that it was even his fault that her father was dead. Something inside the woman seethes at the thought of Haytham protecting Charles, dedicated enough to try to plunge his blade into the throat of his own daughter.

And yet, he didn't.

The way the blade glides through her hair becomes more natural with each stroke. The Assassin runs it up the back of her head, the sides, the front, making sure to miss no spots. When the task is complete, she is left with a few hairs dangling down from a mohawk, tied in the back by the remaining ponytail she had not bothered to take out, and never would. The feathers tucked into the ponytail are removed, briefly dipped into the blood-stained water, and then replaced.

Two fingers are dipped into the black paint, the middle one dipped in the red. With a breath, Connor glides these fingers down each cheek, making sure the lines are straight and clear, going over them several times to make sure.

Hands are rewashed, now raw from the amount of scrubbing she has done. The Assassin brushes off her shoulders and chest, feeling at the back of her neck.

It is hard to look at Haytham's face and imagine the two different people he was. She wondered if that was what it was like to look at herself. It was hard to know what others could see of you from the outside, harder still to see what they could see about what was inside.

Connor feels this is tribute enough, to the people both she and her father are and were. She glides her palms along the smooth surface of the sides of her skull where there used to be hair. To a father long gone, she assures herself.

Grief has become a shadow that wraps about the shoulders and neck and threatens to strangle the host at any moment chosen. Grief has become the ever-persistent nagging at the back of the mind, a shallow reminder of what could have been and what could never again be.

It is a fact that Connor decides that she will live with. In his honor, she will complete what she has started. But instead of letting the corruption in, she will filter it out. Connor will stay true to herself, even when deprived of all sanity and hope and love.

Hanging on a candle stand in Connor's room is Kaniehtí:io's necklace. Upon the table beside it rests Kanen'tó:kon's tomahawk. Haytham Kenway's hat is set carefully upon the top of the candle stand, and never once does it accumulate dust.


End file.
